


on seeking comfort (and finding it)

by earlgrey_milktea



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Healing, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: Andrew finds Neil in the shower. Wordlessly, he picks him up and waits for Neil to piece himself back together.





	on seeking comfort (and finding it)

**Author's Note:**

> so i've made the mistake of diving straight into this rabbithole (foxhole?) of a fandom for the past two weeks and i just gotta say, bless this fandom for creating so many works dedicated to the process of healing........ i'm honestly so thankful??
> 
> anyway i'm still a bit uncertain about their characterisation so pls take this humble offering. set some time after neil is signed onto a team of his own and they're flying back and forth to each other bc they can afford it but before the cats (sadly)

 

Andrew steps through the front door and nearly trips over Neil’s runners where they’re sprawled in front of the doorway. He takes a moment to blink at the sight, and then easily picks his way around the shoes and into the hallway.

The lights are off, the apartment quiet. The blinds are still closed, despite the bright sunlight outside. It’s not unusual or uncommon, but there’s something about the stillness that prickles at Andrew’s skin. Even the hum of the heating feels muted. 

He drops his bag in the living area and continues down the hall towards the bedroom. The door is open but the room is empty. The bed is unmade, covers thrown messily across the neat side of the bed—his side—as if in a hurry. He spies a familiar phone sitting on the edge of the bedside table, likely untouched after shutting off the morning alarm. He doesn’t even bother with exasperation.

He backs out of the room and turns towards the bathroom. He can hear the sound of running water now. The lights are off in there, too, though he can see the natural sunlight from underneath the closed door.

He knocks, sharp and clear. “Neil,” he says. “Can I come in?”

For a moment, there’s no response. Andrew breathes in and clamps down on the delightful part of his brain that likes to imagine worst case scenarios. Then, quietly, barely above the sound of the shower, Neil says his name.

The door is unlocked, but Andrew knows it is less of a sign of trust than a sign of numb unawareness. He must have headed straight for the bathroom after his run. Andrew doesn’t know what happened, but the locks were untouched, so he allows himself another deep breath before twitching open the shower curtain.

Neil is huddled on the floor of the tub, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them so tight Andrew has a fleeting worry about circulation. He’s still in his workout clothes, now plastered against his skin along with his miserable dark curls. He looks like a drowned cat. He looks like a lost child. 

Andrew hates it.

“Neil,” he says. His voice feels violently loud in the cold silence. When he receives no response, not even a glance to acknowledge his presence, Andrew reaches up to check the water temperature. Freezing, and Neil’s skin tells exactly just how long he’s been sitting there.

“Neil,” he says again. “Look at me.”

That earns him a full-body shudder. Neil’s eyes slip shut. His lips twitch, but no sound comes out. Andrew presses his own lips together. He kneels by the tub.

“Abram,” he says.

Slowly, agonizingly, Neil raises his gaze to find Andrew’s. It’s much too distant. There’s a weariness to his jaw and a trembling in his hands that’s all too familiar, and Andrew resists the urge to slam a fist into the wall. Even after all this time, it still makes Andrew’s skin crawl. Recovery is not a straight line. He can still hear Bee’s soothing voice. He can hear both Neil and himself repeating that like a mantra. It doesn’t make much a difference.

But slightly is better than nothing.

Andrew lifts his hands, telegraphing his movements in Neil’s line of sight. “Can I touch you?” he asks quietly.

A pause. A nod.

Andrew doesn’t break eye contact. He brushes aside Neil’s wet bangs. His armbands are damp now, too, but neither of them pay any attention. His fingers find Neil’s chin and the back of his neck. He holds on tight. He holds him steady.

“You’re safe,” he tells him, “Look at me. You’re Neil Josten, you play stickball for a living, you’re in your apartment in New York. It’s one in the afternoon and you are safe.”

It takes a long time. Or maybe a minute. But Andrew’s arms are soaked and Neil is starting to shiver and neither of them mention a damn thing. He watches as Neil’s eyes close, a breath in, a breath out, in a pattern carved out through countless rude awakenings in the middle of the night and more than a few reluctant sessions in the quiet calm of a therapist’s office. It takes a long time, but Andrew, for all his faults and flaws and fuck ups, has always been a patient man.

“Kevin would throw a fit,” is what finally comes out of Neil’s mouth, “if he heard you call it stickball.”

Andrew levels him with a dead stare. “Don’t mention him while I have my hand around your neck.”

Neil doesn’t laugh, but he does allow Andrew to pull him up and to turn the water temperature back up. Andrew doesn’t leave until he confirms that Neil is able to stand on his own and go through the motions of an actual shower. If the movements are mechanical and those blue eyes are still blank as they stare at the blue-and-white tiles, Andrew keeps his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and turns his focus on finding a change of clothes for the both of them.

By the time Neil slumps out of the bathroom, Andrew has traded his disgusting travel clothes for a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized sweater that Matt bought for Neil, once upon a time, but has been worn interchangeably between the both of them enough times that the fabric is faded and the cuffs loose. Neil is dressed similarly, and he chews on the string of his hoodie as he trails after Andrew in the kitchen.

“Sit,” Andrew says after almost walking into him for the third time. Neil sits. Andrew turns off the stove and slides a plate of stir-fried potatoes, eggs, chicken, and assorted vegetables in front of him. He stares expectantly over his own plate until Neil picks up the fork and meekly scoops a bite into his mouth.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Andrew asks after their plates are piled in the sink for later. He doesn’t look up from the tv even though he has no idea what show is on and no desire to care. 

Neil tugs at his sleeves. No wonder all their cuffs are stretched and worn. “No,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t pick you up.”

“I know how public transit works.”

“Yeah. Still. Less than stellar welcome, huh.”

Andrew resists the urge to punch him, or the tv, or the window. Instead, he turns to the boy beside him and goes, “What do you need?”

He’s not stupid. Neil has always been fiercely independent—habit sewn into his bloodstream and stubborn pride to match—but the years of settling into this skin, the final identity and the life he chose for himself, has steadied him. Neil still hates the whites of office spaces where people like Bee ask him how he’s doing upon greeting, but he’s started to schedule his own visits with minimal teeth-pulling. Neil still runs on a regular basis but less like a rabbit ready to bolt and more like a fox with a purpose. Neil’s phone, even if misplaced more often than not, is filled with contacts of teammates, friends, family, people who care about him and people he knows to call when he needs to. He’s still stupid and brash but he’s learning how to take care of himself. Andrew knows this better than anybody. He doesn’t fool himself into thinking he can offer Neil more comfort than what Neil can figure out on his own.

But the thing is, Andrew isn’t stupid, and that’s why he’s here, on the couch next to Neil, waiting for an answer that will come as surely as sunrise. Andrew isn’t stupid, and just like Neil’s done his own growing, Andrew has long since stopped denying this  _ something  _ between them. He’s still not Neil’s answer, and Neil is still not his, but. But. 

They’re  _ something _ .

“Can you stay?”

Neil is watching him back. He looks present, less like he’s going to fade away if Andrew loses sight of him. There’s still a hint of vulnerability in the way he holds himself, but Andrew lets it rest.

“My plane doesn’t leave until Tuesday,” he says in response.

Neil offers a quirk of his lips at that, and then he’s shifting forwards. His fingers grip the hem of Andrew’s sweater. They both stare down at the contact. An admission, a declaration almost too bold between the two of them. A leap of faith.

Andrew swallows a small sigh. He drags his eyes back up and finds Neil already staring. 

“Yes or no?” he asks.

The  _ yes  _ that leaves Neil’s lips is more like a breath of relief than anything. He leans into Andrew’s touch like a cat, eyelids falling to half-mast, tension slipping out of his frame like water down the drain. Andrew traces over the scars painted across Neil’s face briefly with his thumb. His hands find their way home through Neil’s stupid messy curls to the back of his neck. Then they’re both leaning in, closing the gap, settling, steady.

It doesn’t fix anything, but comfort is something they’re both finally beginning to understand.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> next time i write them there will be cats, i promise
> 
> find me @puddingcatbae on tumblr/twitter!!


End file.
